


Measure A Year

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Characters, Body Swap, Fluff, Gen, Good Omens Big Bang, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, fun seasonal adventures, minor mentions of non-physical self-harm, some themes of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are punished for their role in averting the apocalypse, and are stripped of all miracle privileges for an entire year. This ordinarily wouldn’t be the worst punishment in the world, were it not for the fact that they’ve already swapped bodies in their effort to prepare for the worst. Unable to switch back without miracles, they’re forced to live as each other for an entire year. It goes about how you’d expect.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 217
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for the Good Omens Big Bang, and is an illustrated collaboration with ThePlaidFox and Katy133.
> 
> It also received the magic touch from my amazing beta, cosmya.
> 
> You can find us on Tumblr here:  
> [theinkwell33](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> [ThePlaidFox](https://theplaidfox.tumblr.com/)  
> [Katy133](https://katy-133.tumblr.com/)  
> [cosmya](https://cosmya.tumblr.com/)
> 
> AO3:  
> [Katy133](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katy133)  
> [ThePlaidFox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044715)  
> [cosmya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya)
> 
> See the end notes for links to the illustrations in each chapter.

There is a bookshop in Soho.

On any given day, the occasional pedestrian might linger in front of the building, which in faded print reads _A. Z. Fell and Co. – Antiquarian and Unusual Books._

If they were a tourist, and if they were to glance through the window while fumbling with a map of the Tube, they would see exactly what they expected. A shop full of old books, with motes of dust drifting through any sunbeams that managed to get through the rarely cleaned window panes.

If they were a Londoner, they wouldn’t have given the shop a second glance. It’s easy to overlook what you’re used to seeing every day.

But if anyone with a keener eye was to look into the bookshop window today, they would find quite a spectacle unfolding around the fate of two supernatural beings, both of whom have just been on trial for crimes related to stopping the Apocalypse.

A soft looking man slouches against the well-worn sofa, clasping the hand of a slim, red haired fellow who sits far too primly to match the aesthetic his all-black outfit conveys.

“Why isn’t it working?” hisses the soft one.

“I don’t know, dear boy, keep trying,” mutters the slim one.

“It worked before.”

“Yes, well, I have a hunch about why it’s not working now.”

“Care to share?”

“Well, I’m hoping I don’t have to, I don’t want to be right.”

There is another moment where they regard their clasped hands with concentration, but nothing changes.

“I suppose we’d better face it,” sighs the slim one. “We’re stuck.”

It must be noted here that their respective superiors did not see averting Armageddon as commendable. There was no pat on the back for a job well done from Management, _especially_ not when you’ve got hordes of soldiers preparing heavily for the very day, and then you have to go and tell them to hang up their weapons and get back to their paperwork until further notice. It instead caused some unrest, and both sides came up with the same way to quell it – punish the angel and the demon responsible. And so, they made plans to summon Aziraphale and Crowley to their respective offices. If, by summoning, one meant _kidnap_.

Aziraphale and Crowley, well aware that their heads were on a metaphysical chopping block, came up with their own secret solution. They would swap forms, and escape the inevitable death by Holy Water or Hellfire that was surely to follow.

And so, when the angels came for Aziraphale, they took an Aziraphale-shaped demon instead and never noticed. This was probably thanks to Crowley, who had done his best to splutter and fuss the way the real Aziraphale would in that situation. And when the demons came for Crowley, they handcuffed a hissing Crowley-shaped angel without ever suspecting a thing.

The plan would have been foolproof, if the executions had played out the way Crowley and Aziraphale anticipated.

The trouble was, the executions never came.

Their punishment, by unanimous vote (although how the unanimity was achieved varied in the methods used by each side), was instead to lose their ability to perform miracles for an entire year.

To both sides, a year without miracles seemed quite cruel enough. The ultimate indignity of it, to live as humans do, experiencing inconveniences like time and entropy and reliance on others. It might not have been so bad for Aziraphale and Crowley to get through, had they not already switched bodies. Because it seemed, without miracles, they wouldn’t be able to switch back.

Of course, it is fine to pretend to be each other under high stakes for one solid afternoon.

But it is quite another thing entirely, they are currently realizing, to be each other for an entire year.

* * *

It is lucky they have some good wine saved in Aziraphale’s cellar. Crowley, who knows the shop at this point like the back of his hand, suggests that he should be the one to go get it, in case they are still being watched. This is very possible, and it wouldn’t do to have anyone suspect they’d swapped forms – who knows what the punishment for _that_ would be. It is completely reasonable to assume there are angels and demons surveilling their movements.

So, Crowley retrieves the wine. It would look odd for the Crowley-shaped Aziraphale to putter about the bookshop as if he owned it. This is the first thing they establish – they will have to stay at each other’s places. There is no way Crowley can show back up at his flat looking all rumpled and angelic like _this_ and expect to go on living there without some questions.

Crowley has _neighbors_ , for hea-...for he-...for goodness’ sake; they would think he was a polite, tartan-wearing burglar. Which, actually, would be a much more logical explanation than the actual truth. Crowley just wants to avoid discussions where he has to convince anybody he is still himself, just trapped in the body of a frustratingly good-natured foodie wearing clothes from a previous century.

When the wine is poured, Aziraphale is the first one to point out that they really should make the bottle last. There’ll be no miraculous replenishing, no fast track to sobering up, and no sneakily improving the vintage. This makes Crowley’s anticipation for the wine flicker out like a snuffed candle.

Things are going to be different now, and he is…well, he’s worried.

They tally up all the things they are going to need to consider.

“You’ll have to call me _dear_ in public,” says Aziraphale, straightening the collar on his jacket. “It wouldn’t make sense if I said it to _you_.”

“And you’re going to have to dress fashionable. No tartan. Under any circumstances. And lots of black. And take care of my feet, they’re sensitive.”

“You mean these _aren’t_ snakeskin shoes?”

“…No.” As he says this, Crowley notes the alarmed expression Aziraphale is making, and adds, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s freaking me out. At least put the sunglasses on. At least then I don’t have to look myself in the eye.”

“You realize this is unsettling for me too,” counters Aziraphale. He slides the sunglasses onto his nose with a fluid gesture that is eerily spot-on. And then he promptly ruins it by gesturing in a flailing, helpless way that is just...so _Aziraphale_ . “I’m going to have to be you. I’m going to have to _act_ like you. And… _oh_ …you’re going to have to be _nice_ to people. That’s…terrifying.”

They take that in with quiet horror.

“You know what’s the worst?” bemoans Crowley after another few minutes. “The _Bentley_ . You’re gonna have to drive my _car_.”

At that, they both decide they have an appetite for the wine after all.

That night, Aziraphale sits alone in Crowley’s flat. The plants are rustling, as if confused. It’s like they’re expecting him to yell at them, but he doesn’t have it in him right now. All the lights are off, and he decides to take off the sunglasses. He sits there, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the bustle of London below. A car horn blares, a balloon of raucous laughter rises to his window from the restaurant on the corner. There is so much life teeming around him, but Aziraphale has never felt so alone. He keeps expecting to see Crowley, the _real_ Crowley, waltz in and pick up the plant mister. But for the next year, the person misting the plants is going to be Aziraphale, a _charlatan_ , and that makes him feel rather dizzy. He supposes he should try to sleep. Maybe he’ll feel better after. It’s what Crowley would do.

Meanwhile, Crowley has propped himself up on Aziraphale’s couch. The angel doesn’t have a bed, so this is the next best thing. The bookshop is practically thrumming with words unspoken, and the dust seems to make deafening noises as it settles. He isn’t tired, the angel doesn’t _get_ tired, so sleeping is out of the question. What is he supposed to do for all these nights? The world was hard enough to live through for six thousand years when sleep was a viable escape hatch he could use at his leisure. Being awake at night like this...makes him feel like he is a very small ant in an expansive space. Dwarfed by the pressure of an unfathomable amount of time that he has to spend by himself. There’ll be no Aziraphale during those times, because Aziraphale will be asleep. 

After a few moments of fighting off crushing panic and ennui, he realizes he’s an idiot. He’s in a bookshop. There are books to read. That’s exactly what the angel would do. So he gets to his feet, and browses (when he’d prefer to _stalk_ ) the shelves for something to occupy his mind. How many books can measure the span of this year? Time will tell. Might as well get used to it.

* * *

Several weeks pass. The warmest days of summer are behind them, and there is just the slightest hint of September whispering in the morning wind. Aziraphale has dutifully been staying at Crowley’s flat, and every morning, while on the phone with Crowley, he has gone to sit in the demon’s beloved car and learn the different dials and knobs. He’s examined the cassette player, fussed with the windshield wipers, and fiddled with the gearshift. He’s done everything except actually drive it.

Until now.

On an empty country road, the gleaming 1926 black Bentley sits pulled over on the side. Crowley drove them out of London to somewhere quiet and sparsely populated, to avoid the possibility of Aziraphale causing any fatalities.This is necessary, because Aziraphale is uncomfortable driving at all, let alone at the speeds Crowley would have been expected to exceed.

Crowley reclines primly in the passenger’s seat, despite the fact that he is in a foul mood over the fact that he had to drive the speed limit _and then_ had to relinquish the wheel. He wishes he could slouch. But no, he has to pretend to be all celestial goodness and etiquette and wait for Aziraphale to get _on_ with it already.

“I don’t like this, it’s like I’m having an out of body experience,” Crowley eventually mutters after agonizing minutes of Aziraphale adjusting the mirrors.

“Well…you are. Having one. Although, you _are_ getting better at tone, _angel_ ,” grins Aziraphale. “That sounded just like me.”

“Let’s just get this over with. _Dear_ ,” he says, folding his hands in his lap, the way Aziraphale taught him. They can never know if anyone is watching, so both of them are doing their best to pretend to be each other convincingly. 

“I want to, but I’m nervous. What happens if I crash and we get discorporated? Would we go where we were supposed to? Or would we be found out? What if that’s the end of the line and we don’t get to come back? What if I never see you again?”

“ _Dear_ ,” Crowley says through his teeth, resisting the urge to be himself, “with all due respect, shut up and drive the car, please.”

Aziraphale turns the key in the ignition, the way he’s been told, and the Bentley purrs to life. He grips the steering wheel like he’s about to ride into battle. And then, they do not move.

Crowley leans over into Aziraphale’s space. “You…have to put it in Drive.”

“I _know_.”

“So…”

“So, I know this car means a lot to you…uh… _me_ , and y- I mean, _I_ would be heartbroken if something happened to it, so I’m trying to be careful.”

“That’s sweet,” says Crowley, even though he doesn’t have the patience to actually think so. “But this is taking too long.”

“You have no idea how strange it is to _hear_ something like that in that voice,” remarks Aziraphale, sounding unsettled.

The reference hangs in the air like the approaching thunderstorm clouds. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ Crowley is _not_ touching that subject ever again. Especially not in the Bentley.

He changes the subject. “Let’s play some music. And you can go twenty five at first, until you get used to the sensation. Then we’ll up the speed.”

“Ngh, fine,” groans Aziraphale. 

The imitation is so good it distracts Crowley for a moment, and when the car lurches forward, he promptly flies straight into the dashboard with a smack. “Oh! _Ouch_.” His exclamation sounds just like the angel, if he can take any semblance of pride in this moment.

“Sssssorry,” Aziraphale hisses, slamming on the brakes. “ _Ohhh._ That’s _new_ ,” he gasps. “The hissing. What triggers it?”

“Mmph,” huffs Crowley as he unfolds himself, nursing a sore shoulder. “Nerves. I think. I don’t know.”

Aziraphale accelerates a little more gently this time, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Crowley. It’s hard to tell under the sunglasses, but Aziraphale’s memory is clearly flashing back to all their previous conversations. “Nerves? I never would have guessed-”

“Watch the road!”

As Aziraphale swerves back into his lane, Crowley exhales and tries to keep calm. They are driving through the countryside, with verdant trees and gated pastures drifting by in a green and gold blur under an increasingly cloudy sky. _See? Calm. Peaceful. Your best friend, who is currently inhabiting your corporation, is not going to drive you off a cliff. Breathe. Think about sheep. Maybe ducks._

He aims for some Aziraphale-level encouragement, channeling patience. “I’d recommend going a reasonable speed, too, otherwise you’ll draw too much attention to us.”

Aziraphale accelerates so abruptly that Crowley’s head slams painfully against the headrest. “ _Gently_ , angel,” he murmurs, and then realizes his mistake. “Uh. I mean. Erm. _Crowley_.”

“I am trying.”

Crowley flips on the cassette player to distract himself. He feeds a Mozart tape into the slot, already expecting it to have become Queen at this point.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, something new comes blasting through the speakers, mid-way through what was supposed to be a moping requiem sung by Freddie Mercury, but is decidedly and bizarrely, ABBA.

_Mamma Mia, here I go again! My, my, how can I resist you?_

Aziraphale’s face goes slack with mortified horror. With a cringe, he lifts one hand off the wheel and jams the knob with one long finger.

Somehow, the resulting silence is worse.

“How long has it been doing _that_?” Crowley demands in disgust.

A discreet flush appears on Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Er, well, I suspect it might be responding to my influence. From me sitting in here. Puttering. Maybe it knows I’m not you.”

“ _ABBA_ , for heaven’s sake,” Crowley says without thinking. It then dawns on him, he’s in the body of an angel. He can _say_ that now. Unironically. It’s a funny thing that should make him happy, but instead just reminds him of their predicament. The old anger flares up again in full force, before he can stop it. ABBA.The _audacity_. As if he was some kind of cosmic joke to be laughed at. “Unbelievable. I’m being mocked. I can’t drive and the Bentley won’t even metamorphose songs into Queen correctly. This isn’t going at all how I hoped. I mean, I’m wearing _tartan_ _socks_. And I miss my plants.”

Aziraphale flinches in his seat, and, to Crowley’s surprise, pulls the car over again. Thunder rumbles in the distance and a light rain begins to fall against the windshield. Aziraphale turns off the engine.

“It hasn’t been easy for me either, you know. But I’m _trying_. I miss things too. I miss my books, and my cocoa, and going to my favorite restaurant to eat sushi. Do you think I enjoy walking around hiding your beautiful eyes under these glasses? And don’t get me started on routines, I can’t go to any services, not in this form, I’ll burn my feet off. And the homeless shelter-”

“What homeless shelter?”

“You mean you haven’t been _going_? They’re going to think I’ve died!”

“You never told me! I’m not an angel or a mind reader, how was I supposed to know!”

The rain begins to fall harder.

“I’m going to say this, because we’re both thinking it,” Aziraphale sighs. “This isn’t working.”

Crowley reels back as if he’s been slapped. “What?”

“I know we thought we could manage being each other, but I think we can both agree it’s a lot harder than we were anticipating. I don’t believe just _trying harder_ is the answer. We’re going to have to help each other more, I think.”

 _I thought you meant_ we _weren’t working,_ he thinks but doesn’t dare say. 

What he does say: “Tch. Yeah.”

Aziraphale is right. It _has_ been hard. And accepting it brings a lot of emotion Crowley isn’t used to having. Was he just that good at suppressing it before? Or is Aziraphale’s form influencing his softness?

Crowley realizes he doesn’t have sunglasses to conceal his expression. His eyes are actually watering. Why does Aziraphale’s body have to cry so often? It’s annoying. He’s not used to having tear ducts.

“So,” Aziraphale says, his sunglasses reflecting a strike of lightning that flashes in the distance. “What are we going to do to make it easier?”

“You mean a plan?”

“Yes, if you recall, we’re rather good at making those.”

“Yeah, and if you recall we’re also rather good at botching them.”

“Imagine how much worse it would have been if they hadn’t been botched. We’d never have this opportunity to learn about each other, to better understand and help each other.”

That’s the angel for you. Everything is an opportunity for something good to come out of it. Disgusting. And yet, after six thousand years of hearing this, and after everything they’ve been through, Crowley...can’t exactly contradict it, even if he wants to.

“I think we should make a list,” Crowley suggests. “Of the things we have to expect if we’re going to successfully do this. Stuff we haven’t thought about before. The complicated bits. Not just, _oh you have snake eyes now,_ or _you have to keep people from selling the books_. The deep stuff. We’ll have to be honest.”

“I agree,” Aziraphale nods. The sunglasses slip down on his face to reveal the yellow eyes under them. “We can make the lists when we get back tonight.”

With this agreed, they lapse into a small silence, watching the wind buffet the leaves of a nearby tree.

“I’m...sorry,” Crowley blurts.

He’s not sure why he’s apologizing. He hates apologizing. There’s a reason for that. But he can blame this out-of-character display on this corporation, so he does. “I shouldn’t have-”

“I’m sorry too,” sighs Aziraphale. He’s looking out at the rain, which has become a downpour. “I should have been more upfront. I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, and I shouldn’t be complaining.”

They sit there for a moment, and the thunder seems to punctuate the end of the conversation. After a while, Aziraphale starts the car again and braces himself. He locates the wipers switch and clears off the windshield. He also flicks on ABBA again with a wry smile.

_I've been angry and sad about things that you do_

_I can't count all the times that I've told you we're through_

“I say.” If Crowley’s feathers were out, they’d be ruffled.

“Just wanted to see your reaction.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I would do.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure you want to keep driving? We can stop.”

“No, I want to learn. And we’d better do it fast, we have a long way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to art in this chapter:  
> Katy133:  
> [Clasped Hands](https://www.deviantart.com/katy133/art/Measure-a-Year-Clasped-Hands-824452770)  
> [Hissing in the Car](https://www.deviantart.com/katy133/art/Measure-a-Year-Hissing-in-the-Car-824453115)
> 
> ThePlaidFox:  
> [Bookshop](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49302072387_a1932711c1_c.jpg)  
> [Back to Back](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49302076632_430bb33c4f_c.jpg)  
> [ThePlaidFox art post on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044715)


	2. Autumn

It’s dark, almost time for Aziraphale to sleep. But there’s something he _must_ do first.

He raises the plant mister with a shaking hand. The plants in front of him aren’t trembling like they’re supposed to. They’ve leaned to the left, all of them, as if cocking their heads in confusion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he drawls, doing his best to sound authoritative. “Do you think I’m here to be nice to you? Think again.”

The plants don’t move from their curious positions. Aziraphale has the feeling that his hold over them is slipping through his hands like...well, water.

If this were a bad American western movie, Aziraphale would fidget with the plant mister trigger, some whistling music would play in the settling dust, and the camera would pan up from his snakeskin boots to the houseplants he is up against. 

But this is not a western. Aziraphale is not nearly that dramatic, and the setup is much more like a firing squad, with the plants being the ones at advantage.

He gulps, inwardly giving himself a pep talk. _You’re a demon, you can do this, you’re a bad, evil demon who terrorizes his houseplants to make them grow better. It’s for their own good._

“Er. All right then. Inspection time.”

This, at least, garners a reaction from the plants, who subtly straighten to full height. Only a trained eye would notice the way they shift to present their leaves.

Aziraphale takes his time, hoping there are no spots. If there are spots, he’ll have to Do Something About It. 

And that Something, as Crowley had written down on the list, is to...well...execute them.

That’s all the list says. _Execute them_. Leaving a lot up to interpretation. Aziraphale is good with interpretation, and he is good at not asking the questions he doesn’t want the answers to. He’ll figure something out. The other plants (and Crowley) never have to know.

He gently brushes a finger under a shiny rubber plant leaf, then scrutinizes one of Crowley’s bamboo specimens, eyes roaming and searching for what he hopes not to find.

He’s nearly through the entire jungle of foliage Crowley has acquired before Aziraphale reaches a rather sickly potted plant in the back. As soon as his eyes reach it, he sees a tiny hole in one of the leaves and his heart sinks. In all his inspections so far, the plants have maintained their appearances. This is the first time he’s had to take any action besides watering them and admonishing them.

Careful to keep his expression the epitome of neutrality, he lifts the plant by the rim of its terra cotta pot and holds it up to eye level. He takes off the sunglasses for full effect.

“You’ve disappointed me,” he says. “I give you all the water and sunlight you could ask for. I talk to you. I listen to you. And this is how you repay me? Am I not enough for you?”

The plant, obviously, says nothing. Aziraphale holds his gaze for effect, then raises the pot up to the others. “You see this? This is what is going to happen to you if you don’t behave yourselves. I know you think you’re so great, but you’re all one blemish away from disgrace, you understand? You’re dust, just inadequate dirt and chlorophyll. You’re nothing. And-” Aziraphale realizes at this point he is getting carried away. “-And this is me making an example so you know what to expect if you don’t produce good results. Punishment of my own devising. Okay? So, say goodbye to your friend.”

He spins on his heel and hoists the offending plant up with one hand, carrying it away. He walks into the spotless, never-used kitchen. When he’s sure he’s out of sight (never mind that plants can’t see), he flicks on the garbage disposal.

The horrible, guttural noise should be enough to convince the plants in the other room that something awful is happening to this poor victim. Aziraphale sets the offending plant on the counter, safe from harm, and counts to eleven before shutting the horrible grinding contraption off. He stares at the plant, not sure what to say to it. He goes with...nothing.

He’s too busy plotting an alternate punishment. He can’t kill the poor dear. There has to be another way.

So, he grabs the keys to Crowley’s flat, tucks the plant under his arm, and makes his way, furtively, down to the street. It isn’t long before he’s in the park, where he, in the sneakiest manner possible (which includes dodging street lamps and pedestrians and digging in the shadows), plants it and returns with the empty pot. He is glad Crowley wears a lot of black, because with all the digging and anxious trowel wielding, he’s surely covered in grass stains and soil smudges. But the black hides all.

When he returns to the flat, Aziraphale places the empty pot on a pedestal beside the other plants, as a message.

He decides Crowley doesn’t need to know he didn’t actually kill the plant, merely replanted it someplace better where it will surely thrive. He hopes anyone watching didn’t witness his moment of kindness. It’s a sure way to reveal he’s not actually Crowley. Crowley would never spare a plant out of mercy.

The funny thing is, according to Hastur, who has been tasked with watching his every move during the Year of Punishment and comparing it to his past actions, Crowley’s always done _exactly_ that. And so, Aziraphale avoids detection. Nothing is amiss.

* * *

Later that week, Aziraphale wakes up and realizes he hasn’t heard from Crowley in at least four days. He tries the bookshop phone to no answer, which is...odd. He tries the mobile phone too. No answer.

At this point, Aziraphale becomes convinced that the minions from Above have discovered their body swap ploy and subsequently murdered Crowley.

Concerned, he decides to head down to the bookshop.

At this point, a few things need to be clarified.

First, when it is said Aziraphale is “concerned”, it means he is acting on sheer terror and adrenaline, with the world tunneling to one point and one point only, and that point is Crowley. His eyes have gone full serpent, and he is starting up the Bentley before he realizes he even left the flat. Fear does strange things to angels in disguise.

Second, when it is said Aziraphale decides to head down to the book shop, it means that Aziraphale is about to perform the most convincing interpretation of Crowley yet. This features senseless speeding, reckless running of lights, several near misses with pedestrians, and some rather startling road rage on Aziraphale’s part.

What can he say? He’s committed to the role.

When the Bentley finally screeches to a stop outside the bookshop, Aziraphale springs out into the crisp autumn air, pale and panting. On the drive (read: race) over, he has convinced himself they’ve already executed Crowley and he’s about to find the watery remains of his dear friend on the wood floor of the bookshop. He gives no thought to the fact he might be next, but instead bursts through the door without hesitation. Or rather, he tries to.

The door is locked.

Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be a problem. With miracles, a locked door is about as effective as an umbrella with a hole in it. But without them, a locked door is a huge problem, and Aziraphale is on the verge of losing it completely when someone approaches from behind and taps him on the shoulder.

He whirls to find a familiar face staring at him, but it’s not Crowley. It’s Mr. Zhang, who owns the lovely tea shop across the street.

“If you’re looking for your friend, he’s at the homeless shelter. He said you might stop by.”

“Er, thanksss,” says Aziraphale, still mildly panicking. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to realize he’s hissed at the poor man. He is too busy fighting the unsettling paranoia that Mr. Zhang knows exactly who he’s talking to. There’s no way any humans could know about the swap, but Aziraphale’s mind still goes there. Again, fear does strange things to angels in disguise.

Mr. Zhang waves him off with a weathered hand and a smile. Aziraphale gives his best attempt at Crowley’s crooked grin - he hasn’t used it that much and it could still use a little work.

He sets off at a brisk walk down the grimy, damp sidewalk, trying his hardest to maintain Crowley’s trademark wiggly gait while simultaneously burning off his distress and frustration. Luckily, the shelter’s only a block away from the shop. He kicks a few sodden leaves out of his path and can’t help but mutter under his breath.

“Could’ve left a _bloody_ note.”

When he reaches the homeless shelter, he locates Crowley almost immediately. It’s hard to describe, but even while wearing sunglasses, Aziraphale can detect a distinct angelic glow around Crowley’s form. 

It’s strange seeing it from an outside perspective, and it makes Aziraphale extremely jealous. In that moment, he hates that they are having to live like this, because it should be _him_ in there, all glowy and ethereal and patting people on the backs and talking to them like old friends. 

He misses all of this, and at once feels extremely isolated and alone. Here he is, a voyeur on his own life, feeling sorry for himself, leaning against the brick wall to give his sore hips a rest. Crowley’s body was not built for long treks on two feet. Aziraphale suspects it’s a snake thing.

Crowley hasn’t noticed him yet, but he appears to be having the time of his life. His short hair is puffed out in curls, his cheeks flushed and healthy, and he is currently putting his arm around a young woman who is wiping tears from her eyes. Crowley smiles at her, a real smile, and says something that makes the small group he’s talking to laugh.

It’s such a shocking sight that if Aziraphale hadn’t witnessed it himself, he’d have never believed it. He never thought he’d see Crowley _enjoy_ something like this.

Eventually, Crowley’s eyes slide up to the wall where Aziraphale is lurking, and he realizes he has a visitor. He politely excuses himself to walk over. But to Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley puts a warm hand on his shoulder, spins him around, and marches him right back out onto the street.

“You can’t be here,” he says in Aziraphale’s kind but authoritative voice. “They’ll ask questions.”

“Ngh!” Aziraphale scoffs, eyes fluttering closed with partial relief and partial rage. “I thought you had died. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought they’d come to...to...well, to kill you. Have you been here this whole time?” He levels an angry stare at Crowley. “No notice, four days without a word!”

“They were concerned when the shifts you - I - signed up for were no-shows, and I said I’d make it up to them by helping out a little extra this week.”

“Why the d-...the h-...why didn’t you tell me!”

Crowley has the sense to look embarrassed. “I got...a little carried away.”

“You can’t volunteer here every day, you’ll neglect the shop. They’re watching us, they’ll think it’s out of the ordinary and start poking around.”

Crowley’s nostrils flare. “Okay, fine, look. I got sick of sitting in that shop. What am I supposed to do in there all day? I can’t sleep, I can’t sell books, I clearly shouldn’t dust...it’s maddening, I’m getting stir crazy.”

And then Aziraphale realizes the issue. “ _Oh_.” He raises a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose under the sunglasses “I see. Cr - Angel, it’s because I don’t spend all my time in the shop. I spend quite a lot of time with, well, with you.”

Crowley blinks. “What.”

“The reason you’ve been stir crazy is because I haven’t been coming to visit you. I haven’t been lounging around in the bookshop, or picking you up to take you to dinner, or insisting you get out of that dusty place and feed the ducks with me. I haven’t been doing any of our routines. Because...I forgot I’m supposed to be the one who...er...initiates them.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re…”

“We’re right idiots,” says Aziraphale. “Now get yourself back in there, finish your shift, and when you’re done, call me like a civilized angel and I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Ah. Um. Thank you,” offers Crowley. “And I didn’t mean for you to think I was dead. It didn’t occur to me…”

“We need a plan in case we can’t get in touch with each other. I _never_ want to experience that again, and after the bookshop fire I don’t suppose you do either.”

“Nnnn, yeah.” Crowley’s angel mask slips just for a moment into something unreadable, an expression Aziraphale has never seen on that face before. 

Then it’s gone, and Crowley, ever the actor, soldiers on as if they’re not having a moment here. Which is exactly what the real Aziraphale would do. “Well, I’m not dead, everything’s fine. Obviously.” He claps a hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder, steps back through the doorway, and gives a fluttery wave goodbye.

Aziraphale waggles his head, annoyed, and mocks, “ _Obviously_ ,” as he saunters back up the road to the Bentley. More fallen leaves have accumulated in the time he’s been gone, and he plucks them gently off the otherwise pristine car.

Within the hour, Crowley calls him, and they go for sushi. 

All is mended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to art in this chapter:  
> ThePlaidFox:  
> [Re-planting](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49302074857_8b0a526c6c_c.jpg)  
> [ThePlaidFox art post on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044715)


	3. Winter

Snow descends upon London slowly, then all at once. With the first few flakes, Crowley gleefully buys more ingredients for cocoa, and pulls out all the blankets Aziraphale squirreled away last winter. They’re all tartan, unfortunately, but nothing’s perfect. As the weather alert on his phone announces the snowstorm will continue into tomorrow, Crowley puts some Tchaikovsky on Aziraphale’s gramophone and smiles. They probably won’t get much accumulation, but Crowley doesn’t mind. He’s determined to enjoy it this time.

Before this year, if he’d known he’d be in this exact position, swaddled in blankets, sipping cocoa with a peppermint stick, and listening to something other than classic rock, he would have laughed himself senseless. But a lot has changed since then, and Crowley feels he’s made the best of this situation.

He can’t help wiggling in and enjoying the snowy day; he’s just in such a good mood. He has never, in all his years as a demon, felt this warm. He’s so accustomed to freezing miserably each winter, because being a snake comes with some unfortunate side effects. But this year, he is effectively on a beach vacation. Part of being “Aziraphale” means he is well insulated, tucked under warm layers of wool, and he has an excuse not to be fashionable. The more hideous the sweater, the warmer it is, and the more inclined Crowley is to wear it. 

He supposes Michael, who is probably watching his every move and reporting back, is bored out of her mind, because, if Crowley does say so himself, he’s doing a fantastic job playing Aziraphale. There’s nothing out of the ordinary worth reporting. He’s shaped up his performance after the debacle at the homeless shelter, not only because of the high stakes of him getting it right, but because he is an expert adapter. Besides a few small isolated incidents of cursing and mild passive aggression (and a mortifying attempt at eating pho), he’s been an entirely convincing angel.

It wouldn’t have been so easy to graft himself into a new life if he hadn’t had to do it before. After Falling, Crowley has intimate experience with once being something and then having that identity ripped away. He knows how to start over, how to build a persona, literally from the ground up, into someone he can look at in the mirror without flinching. It takes acceptance, an ability to change, and sheer, excruciating optimism. That’s why he was chosen to work on Earth – none of the other demons had any semblance of a positive outlook. 

After the incident at the homeless shelter, both Crowley and Aziraphale have tried harder to make things easier for each other. Aziraphale stops by more often, and they’ve gone to feed the ducks, or to see some hideous superhero movie they both know they’ll hate, or to eat sushi. Well, _Crowley_ had eaten sushi. Aziraphale had watched him eat it to keep up pretenses, but spent the whole time looking both hungry and jealous. This unsettled Crowley so much that he nearly tipped over the soy sauce. Thankfully, Aziraphale had taught him some choice phrases in Japanese one summer afternoon during their country road drives, so Crowley was able to appropriately thank the chef at the end of the meal, at least.

Last week, before the first snow, Aziraphale also brought him a set of knitting needles and a massive skein of cream-colored yarn.

“I knit as well, so I thought we could try it when we’re together, on days when the weather’s too bad to go anywhere. You know, to stay warm. Here. It’s alpaca wool,” he said, holding out the supplies. They were arranged in a repurposed wicker basket he’d clearly found in Crowley’s flat. 

Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell him where he’d gotten the basket from, or who had once been inside it. Instead, he’d accepted it with bemused gratitude, unsure of how to explain to Aziraphale that he didn’t know how to knit.

It turns out he needn’t have worried, because Aziraphale has come over almost every evening for the past week to teach him, until Crowley’s stubby fingers finally manage to string together the makings of a very crooked scarf. These nights are actually very fun, since Aziraphale brings his own knitting (a much more advanced black and red sweater). 

But, there’s something else under all the enjoyment, something brewing. Crowley pretends not to notice how Aziraphale’s thin hands cling to warm cups of tea, how he flexes his arms and legs to keep them from cramping up, or how he gravitates to the side of the room where the heater is. Crowley recognizes the signs, knows what is coming, even if Aziraphale doesn’t. But he can’t decide how to bring it up without making it into a whole…thing. So, Crowley stays quiet, makes Aziraphale copious cups of hot tea or cocoa or mulled cider, and learns to knit.

“It’s hole-y, but it’ll do,” he says, holding up his progress.

Aziraphale, who is taking a moment to sip a mug of cocoa from a mug with wings on it (one of very few truly “Aziraphale” things he allows himself while in Crowley’s form), does a spit take and chokes. “Wha-?”

“Hole-y, get it?” Crowley holds up the scarf-in-progress again, looking at Aziraphale through one of said holes.

“I thought you meant _holy_ ,” gasps Aziraphale between coughs, lips quirking up in a lopsided smirk. 

And then, inexplicably, Crowley loses it. He’s never laughed himself to tears before (his own demon form can’t cry, which he’d figured out on day one), so doing it in Aziraphale’s form is such a surprise that it sobers him completely.

“Is this supposed to happen? Or did I break something?” he demands quietly, wiping away the offending drops with an unsteady hand. He glares at them, unsure why this is happening if he feels _happy_. 

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale puts down his knitting and leans forward, his black leather jacket rustling softly. “You’ve…” he pauses, “never experienced that before, have you?”

“Never,” he whispers.

A cold hand pulls the knitting needles away from him, securing Crowley’s undivided attention.

“Well, now you have,” Aziraphale sighs, pointedly taking off his sunglasses. It’s really all that can be said.

* * *

The following afternoon, Crowley is alone again in the shop. He is buried under a pile of blankets, working away on his little scarf, dwelling on the ecstatic new sensation of joyful tears. If he’s being honest, he’s in one of the best moods of his life. 

That is, until he remembers that it’s freezing outside and it’s growing dark. And he thinks of Aziraphale, of what he must be experiencing in Crowley’s body, which is ill-equipped to deal with icy temperatures and little sunlight. It’s months of just...brutal suffering. Sluggishness, stiff joints, the urge to Bask In The Warmth no matter what. The need to sleep. The isolation.

Crowley knows intimately what that’s like, and it occurs to him right then - he can _do_ something about it.

Within minutes, he’s dressed in six layers of soft flannel and wool, pulling a blue knit cap over his curls, and winding a tartan scarf around his neck that his own corporation wouldn’t be caught dead in. It’s almost dark now, but the shops will still be open. He knows exactly what he needs to do.

Crowley doesn’t call before showing up at the flat. It’s weird coming here as a stranger, even though he knows every corner, every wall, every small detail. He visits very rarely, trying to give the angel his space to adapt and adjust to the environment. The bookshop is their usual meeting place. But today, the visit is necessary, and he’s traveled through a flurry get here. He can feel the sharp bite of snow that’s accumulated on his eyebrows and jacket cuffs.

He raps on the door with a mittened fist. It is ineffective, so he shifts the giant box he’s carrying to balance against his hip, then pulls off the mitten with his teeth. The second knock at least garners a response, but it’s not what Crowley was hoping for. Instead of opening the door, Aziraphale makes a muffled “Mmmmmm?” noise from what sounds like the bottom of a well lined with quilts. He’s clearly just woken up from a doze. Crowley inwardly curses, he should’ve thought of this long ago; Aziraphale is probably pretty far gone at this point.

“It’s Cr- Er, it’s me. Uh. _Aziraphale_. Can you let me in? Please?”

There’s a sluggish response that sounds possibly like a “What?”

Crowley takes that as a yes and jiggles the door handle, trying to make noise so Aziraphale doesn’t fall back asleep. “I have something for you, don’t leave me standing out here in the hall, this is heavy.”

There’s a rustling noise, and a few uncertain footsteps. The door creaks open slowly, and Aziraphale stares confusedly back at him from the dark room beyond. The angel’s forehead is pressed against the door as though he can barely keep himself on two feet. His short red hair sticks up at all angles.

“Hm?”

“Let me in, please, I have something that is going to help you.”

Aziraphale is slow on the uptake. “Mmm?”

Crowley walks forward into the flat, and that seems to be enough to get him to step backward and allow him entry. It’s dark in here, and it’s almost impossible to see once Aziraphale closes the door again. In the angel’s form, Crowley can’t see anything, which is disconcerting, but he knows better than to turn on the lights. He doesn’t want to blind his friend.

“Angel,” he whispers, allowing himself one intentional slip up, this one time, because it’s not a mistake, it’s his version of an apology. “Here, I want to help.”

“Help?” Aziraphale murmurs from somewhere on his left. “With what?”

“With the cold. I know how you feel.”

There’s a rustling sound, and Crowley realizes Aziraphale has made it back to the futon in the living room by the plants. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees that it’s piled high with stylish fleeces, but he knows that’s not going to be enough.

He wipes his shoes on the entrance rug and walks over to the living room, thankful he knows this place well enough to navigate without needing to see well. He edges past an enormous decorative statue and sets down the heavy box on top of the coffee table.

He realizes it’s been quiet for too long; maybe the angel’s fallen asleep again. 

“Stay with me,” Crowley mutters, ripping the tape off the box seam and unfolding it.

“I’m here, I’m…” Aziraphale stifles a yawn, “awake. Mostly. What are you doing?”

“I brought you something. I know you’re having a hard time.”

“A hard time?”

“It’s cold. And dark and icy and overall unpleasant outside. Bad things for snakes, you know.”

He hears Aziraphale shift on the couch. “Oh,” he says very softly, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. “Is that what this is?”

“What else could it be?”

“I dunno, I thought it was just an unusually bad winter.” 

He sounds marginally less sluggish now. Crowley digs around in the box and pulls out a cold metal rod, followed by a few assembly-required attachments.

It occurs to him that he should probably explain. As he screws together the different bits (he designed the assembly manuals as part of an assignment for Below, he knows it’s pointless to read them, he can figure it out himself), he begins to talk.

“All the winters are like this one,” he says. “They’re all miserably cold, they’re all dark, they’re usually lonely. It’s hard to even get out of bed - you never saw me much in the winter, this is why. It’s a snake thing. Could never seem to shake it.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathes. “Crowley.” Luckily, he says it so quietly that nobody could’ve overheard. “It’s been like this for _six thousand years_ and you never cared to _mention_ it?” There’s an undercurrent of anger in his voice now. What could he possibly be _angry_ about?

“Well I thought it was like this, you know, for everyone. I didn’t know until...well...now...that it’s actually habitable for most people. Especially warm, glowy angels who like to knit and drink cocoa.”

“How could you think this kind of...suffering was normal?” Aziraphale’s voice goes up in pitch as he splutters. He’s clearly upset. Crowley observes this with mild concern, wondering if he was always this transparent.

The device is now fully constructed, so Crowley makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and goes to plug it in. He fumbles for the outlet, and has to click his phone to gain enough light to see by. He’s careful to point it away from Aziraphale, though. No light until he’s ready.

“I forgot to warn you about it; I genuinely didn’t realize until I noticed I actually felt _good_ , you know? And I realized how bad it must be for _you_ , and since you’ve never gone through it before, and I’m used to it, so, well, you know, I want to help…”

“Unbelievable,” hisses Aziraphale. Judging from his muffled voice, he’s tucked his knees up against his head and folded into a crouch to conserve heat.

Crowley stands up and runs a hand through his hair. He thought he’d be used to the wiry curls at this point, but somehow his brain expects his normal thin hair and it’s always a surprise to find it’s different. He’s gotten accustomed to so much, and it’s been pretty easy for him to do. But it occurs to him that, of the two of them, maybe Aziraphale is struggling more.

“I…” he says, not sure if he wants to go down this path. But maybe it’s time. “I’m sorry. Here I am, apologizing. I never apologize, I hate it, but this time, it’s necessary, this is on me. I don’t know why, but I...have to.”

“What do you have to apologize for?” demands Aziraphale. He sounds properly angry. Oh, dear.

“Er…well, for not preparing you-”

“No!”

The flat goes utterly silent. 

Crowley, whose hand had been inching toward the switch, ready to reveal his surprise, actually flinches. “What do you mean, _no_ ?” He actually sounds indignant, the epitome of affronted righteousness. No wonder Aziraphale used to sound like this to him all the time. The poor angel can’t _help_ it.

Aziraphale makes a series of unintelligible noises, then exclaims, “I’m not angry because you didn’t tell me what to expect! _Honestly_ . I’m angry, but that’s _not_ why.”

“O...kay. Mmm. Can we pause this? I have to show you what I brought, I think it’ll improve your mood, slightly. And then, if you still are angry, you can carry on yelling at me.”

Crowley’s glad it’s dark, because he has a feeling Aziraphale is glaring at him. Looks can’t kill you if you can’t see in the dark. He aims a grin at the angel, though, because he knows Aziraphale can.

“Fine, go on then,” Aziraphale capitualtes.

“Hang on. Before I do this, you’d better put your sunglasses on, there’s going to be light.”

“They _are_ on.”

“Well I can’t know that, can I? Can’t see in the dark.”

“Oh...oh, right. _Forgot_ it was dark.”

“Yes, well, glad you’re getting used to it,” Crowley says crisply. He’s never said anything crisply in his life, until now, and it feels extremely bizarre. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Um. What are you doing, exactly?”

“You’ll see.”

Crowley flicks on the lamp. A soothing red glow emanates from above, and pleasant warmth spills into the space like water from a broken levy. The change in the environment is so palpable that in the now dimly lit flat, Crowley watches Aziraphale unravel immediately from his knotted position.

“I - wha- what is that? Did you...did you buy a _reptile heat lamp_?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, scratching the back of his neck with one hand. He moves to sit on the other side of the couch, so that they’re both basking in the artificial heat. Crowley doesn’t need it, but it certainly feels nice. A bit like being at the beach in summer, when the sun is just strong enough to lightly toast your clothes.

And, as evidenced by the frankly shocked look on Aziraphale’s face, the effect the lamp is having on him is something like...heaven.

“This is...wonderful,” he says after a while. He’s unspooled his long limbs into a slouch that makes Crowley proud. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t going to just sit here and watch you suffer all winter.”

“But you’ve made me do exactly that, all those years,” protests Aziraphale, the anger resurfacing. He pushes the sunglasses farther up his nose. Clearly the tabled argument isn’t going to stay tabled. Crowley’s temptations are out of practice, it seems.

“What?”

“My dear- Urgh, Cr-, nghk. Just. Look. I spent countless years never even knowing this is what you were going through, and it never occurred to you to _tell me_? At the very least I could have visited, or come and helped, or bought a blasted heat lamp.”

“Could’ve bought my own heat lamp.”

“But you _didn’t_.”

The implications of this hang in the air.

Crowley considers Aziraphale. The shining angel, bathed in a halo of red and orange so bright it makes his hair shimmer in a million shades. The flush of color is finally returning to his cheeks. This is the same angel who gave up everything to wear Crowley’s face, who was prepared to go through an execution for him, who is sitting here now, glaring at him with righteous anger, the light from the lamp reflecting off his glasses like dying embers. 

Crowley has never before considered the fact that Aziraphale used to be a soldier, that he probably still has the power to command and intimidate and smite if he so chose. He once had a flaming sword, and wielding it probably lit up his face exactly like this. That battlefield version of Aziraphale is a complete juxtaposition with the jolly, soft one Crowley has come to adore, so he would easily have assumed the angel just wasn’t like that anymore. But now it is clear Aziraphale has made an effort to quell that fearsome part of himself and bury it. He has always been careful to conceal it from Crowley. But it still burns under the surface.

Those instincts are still present, and they suddenly flare to life again in Aziraphale’s current form. He rips off the sunglasses, leans forward, and levels an angry look that is ten times more unsettling when aided by narrowed snake eyes.

With the overall effect of the red tinge to the light and Aziraphale’s furious expression, Crowley is suddenly very sure that this version of Aziraphale could properly scare him. He’s surprised at the fear that sparks to life in his heart. Of all the times when they were on opposite sides, he never felt afraid like this. But it took one heat lamp, one body swap, and one argument, and here he is, actually _frightened_.

“Why did you punish yourself like that?” the angel finally asks, and with that question, the rage and anger and hurt drains from his face. The moment of fear passes from Crowley’s chest like a snuffed candle. 

The light transforms Azirphale’s crumpling features. He goes from terrifying to tender, the shadows splitting his form into a molten chiaroscuro portrait. His lip is trembling.

Crowley can’t help but answer. “It wasn’t _punishment_.”

“I can’t believe you. You just lied to me. In that corporation. Have you no respect? You’re...depraved.”

“Yes, good, you’ve finally grasped that, have you? Glad to see the lamp is waking you up.” 

“Why can’t you just admit it?”

“Admit what?” Crowley blinks innocently.

“Why can’t you just admit you were hurting yourself, making yourself sit here in the dark and the cold? Did you honestly think you deserved that kind of treatment? All this pain was avoidable, and you made me complicit in inflicting it.”

They sit there, and Crowley knows he’s going to have to answer, but he can’t articulate anything properly right now. The quiet hum from the heat lamp blurs reality into wisps of shadow and illumination, and it takes him longer than it should to realize he’s teared up again. In a moment of frustration, he rises from the couch, spins in an aimless circle, blotting his eyes discreetly, and then, he sits down on the floor, propping his back against the sofa, with his short legs crunched up against his chest. In times like this, he actually misses his snake form, he misses the ability to become small when he _feels_ small.

“I’m...I shouldn’t have gotten so upset,” Aziraphale says after a moment. Crowley tilts his head back on the couch cushion, where he’s granted a Dutch angle view of his friend warming his slim hands under the lamp. 

“No…” sighs Crowley. “You’re right.”

An unspoken conversation takes place then, where Crowley leaves his head tilted to look up from his spot on the floor, and Aziraphale gazes at him with those glasses off. And then, Aziraphale moves to the floor too, careful to stay in the radius of light.

They listen to the sounds of a world slumbering under snowflakes, comfortable in their small and bright bubble of warmth. Crowley doesn’t know how long they sit there with the lamp on; but Aziraphale must still be quite worked up because he doesn’t fall asleep. He fidgets with the tassels on one of the blankets. He knits his sweater.

Crowley keeps time with each inhale and exhale, each moment of heat on his skin, each scarlet-tinged sight of a friend by his side. It’s precious to him, and he has to quell the impulse his current form keeps suggesting, the need to _share_ this thought with Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. And he’s not the type to get so emotional.

* * *

“Why do you hate apologizing?” Aziraphale eventually asks. They are still seated on the floor, backs against the couch, the coffee table now shoved back so they can spread out their legs. The sun is just coming up, a gilded orb rising through the windows of Crowley’s flat. The sky behind it is a vibrant red, the color of ruddy cheeks flushed from the cold, or eyes after one has been crying, or the skin of an apple ripe for picking. Crowley has missed a lot of sunrises over the years due to his sleep schedule, but Aziraphale watches this one gratefully. It is the first one he’s seen in months.

The stillness of the morning after snow has fallen is an unsettling quiet. It usually makes Crowley nervous; he’s never liked silences all that much, because they remind him of what’s missing. But this one feels different, like a blank page, a trusted space, a place to divulge a secret. 

He feels brave enough to be Crowley again, just for a moment, because he trusts that no one from Above or Below is watching them this morning. And he also feels brave enough to be honest with Aziraphale.

“Because...well, it’s. Um. Do you know what they told me? Back when I Fell?"

At this, Aziraphale freezes, mute.

"They told me," continues Crowley, "that I only apologized to appease my own guilt. And it's bothered me ever since. Because it was _true_. That's why. That's why I don't say I'm sorry or ask for forgiveness or whatever. Because I know why I want to, and it's not the right reason. What’s the point in making an apology if it’s selfish in motive?"

“You don’t think you deserve forgiveness,” Aziraphale summarizes flatly. “Do you still view apologies the way you did back then?”

“Yeah.”

“Your apology to me just now was of the utmost sincerity. You said it because you were truly sad you’d hurt me. You’re lying again.”

“Were you always this observant?” he sneers, but there’s no malice in it. The whole effect comes off as though he’s startled rather than irritated. Aziraphale’s body can’t even sneer properly. It should annoy him, but it’s also kind of endearing.

Aziraphale ignores the question. “Is that why you never did any of this for yourself? Keeping me company, the gifts, the lamp. You didn’t think you were worth it?”

“Well…”

“You came _running_ over here without qualms, to help _me_ when you realized what state I must be in. An apology in and of itself.”

“Well, I couldn’t run, too icy...but-”

“You clearly thought I was deserving of help. And care.”

Crowley can’t make the noises he’d be able to make in his own form. He settles for a sort of put-out “Hmph.”

“We often treat other people better than we treat ourselves. Why do you think that is? Mmm?”

He groans. “Don’t do this with me, it’s embarrassing seeing you be all sappy and philosophical while looking like that. It doesn’t suit you.”

Aziraphale’s voice becomes impossibly soft. “You’re wrong. About not being worthy of care.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You can’t deprive yourself of loving and being loved. That’s no way to live.”

“That’s a rubbish attitude, is what it is.”

“It’s a human attitude.”

“It’s still rubbish.”

“Of course, angel,” says Aziraphale. “Whatever you say.”

Whatever semblance of profundity this conversation may have taken on is then dashed to pieces by Crowley taking stock of his plants and jumping to his feet.

“Hey,” he says, disgusted, “why are they all wearing knit hats?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to art in this chapter:  
> Katy133:  
> [Heater Lamp](https://www.deviantart.com/katy133/art/Measure-a-Year-Heater-Lamp-824453572)  
>   
> On a serious note: Take care of yourselves and reach out to others if you need it. There may be moments for all of us that feel like a cold, dark winter, but there's always warmth and light in the world, and someone willing to guide you to it. You deserve love and care, even if your brain wants to convince you otherwise - ask for help, you are worth more than you can ever imagine to those in your life. If you need resources, try [here.](https://www.vibrant.org/what-we-do/call-text-chat-online-services/)  
> 


	4. Spring

With the advent of spring comes many new developments. The first of these is that with the combination of warmer weather and the heat lamp, Aziraphale is fully restored to his normal operating level of exuberance. He, of course, tempers this to maintain his performance as Crowley, but it is still there, underneath the scrawny limbs and narrowed eyes. The exuberance finds other, subtler ways to express itself. For instance, all the plants in Crowley’s flat are surprised to find themselves sporting buds and blossoms. And for another thing, Aziraphale’s knitting regimen goes into overdrive, and he finishes his black and red sweater with enough time to spare that he is able to wear it in public on one of the remaining snowy days.

Granted, as soon as Crowley sees him walk through the door to the bookshop, he all but tackles Aziraphale and insists he remove the abomination before anyone from Below notices a demon wearing a homemade knit sweater.

“They’ll think you’ve gone soft!”

“They’ll think I’m _cold_ , and that’s understandable given what we both know about this corporation.”

Crowley flares his nostrils and stands his ground. The light above his head in the bookshop brightens considerably and then burns out with a _pop_. “No. Absolutely not.”

As they stand in the darkness, Aziraphale is the first to laugh. “Your influence just burned out a light bulb.”

“Well, we can’t all make cars play ABBA,” Crowley snaps. “Even without miracles, it seems we give off some, er, energy. I was wondering if I’d have an impact on the shop. Looks like I don’t have to wonder anymore.”

“Entropic,” muses Aziraphale. He’s been reading Crowley’s books on the universe, space, and stars. He figures he should, given that Crowley played a part in creating them.

“Mmm,” hums Crowley. “Anyway. No sweater. At least, not in public.”

Aziraphale capitulates, and that’s that. He has not worn the sweater again. But he has folded it lovingly in a nice box and plans to leave it in Crowley’s flat for him to find once they are able to switch back. It would be the perfect thing to wear to Christmas celebrations with Adam and his family next year.

A week later, Aziraphale drives to the bookshop wearing his normal black leather jacket, a poorly made black shirt (the days of fine quality clothes seem to have passed, sadly), and tight, faded black jeans. He’s finally starting to feel comfortable driving the death trap machine. He and the Bentley have acclimated somewhat, although the ABBA is still very much an issue. Today, it’s playing _Money, Money, Money_ , and Aziraphale does not restrain his groan.

By the time he arrives at the bookshop, the song’s stuck in his head, little bits of chorus rocketing around his head as he parks (legally - neither of them can afford the headache of a ticket right now). He shakes his head as if attempting to dislodge the song from his brain, and steps into the bookshop.

The nice thing about spring is that it’s been warm enough for Aziraphale to be comfortable outside. He’s no longer freezing to death, what with the very generous heat lamp and the milder March weather.

But even in Crowley’s form, which appreciates warmer temperatures than any sensible human (or angel) would find comfortable, Aziraphale enters the bookshop and even he realizes it is _far_ too hot inside.

“Oi,” he tries. He’s been trying his hardest to use words like _oi_ , and _hey_ , and _ngk_ wherever possible. It’s going to be a hard habit to kick when they switch back, but for now it fits. He warily enters further into the bookshop, removing his leather jacket and glancing around for a window he can open. He seems to remember sealing them shut sometime in the eighties. “Angel?”

“Mmph,” says Crowley from somewhere behind the nonfiction section. Or, at least, that’s what it sounds like. The acoustics in this dusty bookshop are frankly atrocious, a fact that Aziraphale is justly proud about. It muffles the sounds of the bustling street outside, and the jarring silence often unnerves potential browsers and sends them scurrying.

“It’s hot in here, why do you have the heat on?” Aziraphale isn’t sure if he can sweat, but doesn’t really want to find out. “Where are you?”

“Here,” Crowley says, and a weak hand sticks out from around the corner of a bookshop, waving feebly in his direction. It’s rather dim in the bookshop once you get past the arc of light the dirty windows let in at the front. Aziraphale is grateful for the visibility his current snake eyes grant him in this moment, because there is no way he would’ve found Crowley otherwise. The poor dear is buried under a pile of books, stirring feebly in the shadows. No telling how long he’s been stuck; there isn’t another soul in the shop.

Aziraphale shoves the books aside (carefully, these are first edition Tolkiens) and wrestles a dazed Crowley out of the piles of literature and into the nearest armchair. 

“What happened?” he demands, pushing the sunglasses up into his hair and leaning to inspect his friend. “Are you all right? Why is it so hot in here? Why were you buried under all those books?”

“It broke.”

“What, the heater?”

“Both. That _and_ the bookshelf.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

“Have you sent for someone to fix it?”

“The bookshelf?”

“The air. Obviously.”

“Er...no. It’s still stuck, I can’t turn it off. But I haven’t gotten around to, ah-”

“Why?”

Crowley stands slowly, brushing off his waistcoat. “Well. Erm.”

“What’ssss wrong?” _Oh no_ , Aziraphale winces. He’s hissing again. Nerves indeed.

“I wasn’t going to tell you. I was trying to figure it out.”

“Sssspit it out, you’re making me nervousss.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Crowley ruffles his hair and a few bits of broken wood from the bookshelf fall to the floor. “Well. Look. The bookshop doesn’t have any more funds. Short of selling books, I’ve had to cut back on all the expenses, and I still think we’ll only barely have enough to stay afloat until we get our miracles back. There just isn’t money for a fix.”

“You...you’ve been doing bookkeeping?”

“It’s in the job description. Book _shop_.”

“No. Bookkeeping. You’ve been managing the finances here?” Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “You told me you didn’t know how to pay taxes. Or rent. Actually, I remember you calling the concept of currency a ‘dud’ back in the third century.”

“Well. Yes. Well. I...I’m learning about it now.” Crowley leans out of the aisle and points back to the main counter, where a book on small business management has been fastidiously tabbed and bookmarked. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading to pass the time. Among other things.”

“That’s...brilliant.”

“You’re missing the point. I just told you we’re essentially broke. I thought you’d be upset.”

Aziraphale is grateful this form can’t cry. He almost sounds convincing when he shrugs and says, “We can sell a book.” As if it’s nothing.

“No, no, I promised myself I wouldn’t give any of them up. Not on my watch.”

Aziraphale places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m...touched.”

“Not to ruin the moment,” says Crowley, “but we should probably go somewhere with a reasonable temperature to finish this conversation. I’m melting in this waistcoat.”

Aziraphale pulls his hand away. “Ah, right. Here. We can take a walk. We really should figure out how we’re going to make it through.”

“Yes, all right. I’m not bleeding, am I? That bookshelf hit me rather hard.”

Aziraphale gives him a once-over, reminding himself that Crowley is not a plant to be inspected for imperfections.. “You’re fine. Shall we?”

It may seem rather odd that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale has ever saved much money, but to be honest, they’d never really needed it before. When one is in a position of being able to influence the ways of the world, finances are something that happen to other people. This makes things like rent, taxes, and sizeable charitable donations an absolute breeze. This also makes their current situation extremely unfortunate.

Luckily, there is a concept of a long-term investment. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale is very knowledgeable on this subject, but they have been unwittingly partaking in one for some time, guilelessly accruing interest, and it is about to mature.

Namely, the investment comes in the form of Mrs. Fraticelli, who owns a little Italian trattoria down the street.

Aziraphale has been a dedicated, long time patron of this restaurant for fifteen years. Soon after the place opened, he established himself as a regular customer, and eventually became her good friend. He is generous and kind and encouraging to all the employees. He brings Mrs. Fraticelli flowers every once in a while, to put in the little centerpiece vases on the red checkered tables. After her husband passed away, she and Aziraphale started to play rounds of Scopa at one of the empty tables when he stopped by after closing. Aziraphale knows Mrs. Fraticelli misses her husband, but he figures a rousing game of cards offsets the loneliness a bit. Charitably (and probably wisely), Aziraphale always loses the game. If this makes Mrs. Fraticelli suspicious, she has never mentioned it.

Mrs. Fraticelli is on Crowley’s list of people to regularly visit while he is playing the part of Aziraphale this year. He has continued to drop by to play cards, though he has never had to purposely lose at Scopa - he genuinely cannot win at this game, a change Mrs. Fraticelli has also never noticed. To her, this is all as it should be.

This year, however, Crowley has not been able to frequent the restaurant as a paying customer with the same consistency. Finances have put a strain on that capability, and while he has never said anything to her, Mrs. Fraticelli has, in fact, noticed this.

At this point in the year, Crowley, as Aziraphale, has dined there exactly twice, a meager amount compared to how often Aziraphale used to go. And Mrs. Fraticelli, a woman for whom money has little meaning in the big picture of reasons why the world is precious, is genuinely more concerned that her friend does not like the restaurant anymore. It has nothing to do with profit, and everything to do with the fact that the quality of her food has been called into question.

And it is this confluence of concern and suspicion that has prompted Mrs. Fraticelli to be resolved: she will ask her fluffy, antiquated friend what has happened the next time she spots him in her restaurant window.

And as Aziraphale and Crowley take their walk from the bookshop this sunny afternoon, Mrs. Fraticelli chooses that moment to seize her chance.

* * *

Very few things in life have truly alarmed Crowley. Arguably, only that eleven-year span featuring that business with Adam and the pesky end of the world. Possibly also when he’d wanted to run to Alpha Centauri, or when he’d thought Aziraphale was dead. Maybe that time in the eighties when Aziraphale tried growing a mustache.

But the sight of Mrs. Fraticelli charging at him with the steely determination of a woman on a mission certainly could crack Crowley’s top five experiences of alarm. He only barely compensates for his fear in time, aiming for the best Aziraphale performance of his life.

“Hello, my dear,” he says, channeling Aziraphale so strongly that the real one beside him does a double take. “How are you?”

“I am worried about you,” Mrs. Fraticelli says. She has always been an efficient woman with her words, to the point of bluntness. Aziraphale and Crowley, who have been around people long enough to often wish they’d get to the point faster, both appreciate this quality.

“Worried? About me?” Crowley splutters. “Whyever would you be worried?”

Interested, Aziraphale leans in, adjusting his glasses self-consciously as Mrs. Fraticelli embarks on a long monologue without any stops for breath.

“Why don’t you eat at my restaurant anymore? I know you still come by to talk and play cards, and I do appreciate that. But I have to know. Was it because we changed the recipe for the sauce? I told Marco we weren’t ready for that big of a shift, but he insisted that more oregano is all the rage now and that we needed an update. I’d hate to think you stopped coming because you dislike the food you once enjoyed. It’s a...a pride thing, you see. Have you found another restaurant you prefer?”

She eyes the Crowley-shaped Aziraphale with a mixture of jealousy and disappointed appraisal, as if he’s responsible for stealing away her favorite customer and she is judging him for it.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look. Best to just be honest.

Crowley handles it, fidgeting convincingly with his hands. “We’ve hit...ah, a rough patch, financially. I can’t pay for the meals. I come in when I can. But it’s been tight lately. I’m terribly sorry. Please, know, it has nothing to do with your recipes, they’re as wonderful as ever.”

Evidently, though neither of them could have known this beforehand, this was the exact right thing to say to a woman like Mrs. Fraticelli.

She squares her shoulders, as if she has the perfect solution - and she does. “Well, if that’s the case, why didn’t you say so? You’ve taken care of me ever since Dom passed away, and even before that. I have been waiting for the chance to repay you - I’m only angry I didn’t know about your troubles earlier. You sneaky man,” she frowns, tapping one hand on Crowley’s shoulder in an admonishing gesture. “You don’t let anyone take care of you, do you? Not even this skinny one.” 

She gestures as if to say, _just look at him,_ to the Crowley-shaped Aziraphale, who responds with a weak and nervous, “Eh?”

“Too skinny. We can fix that. Come on. Take me back to your bookshop. I’ll see what we can do.”

The next couple hours pass in a blur. The moment Mrs. Fraticelli steps inside the overheated shop, she puts her foot down and calls one of her nephews to come fix the heater. When the boy arrives, likely no older than fifteen, she has him summon another distant relation named Giandomenico restore some of the power to the decrepit fans installed in the shop. Aziraphale notes all this with surprise and gratitude, because he genuinely had forgotten his bookshop even _had_ fans.

“How did you get that fixed so fast?” Crowley marvels, once the nephew has departed (Mrs. Fraticelli gave him an advance on his allowance as a thank you). “That was unbelievable.”

“I know people who can do all kinds of things,” she shrugs. “We have a community. We take care of each other.”

Crowley mutters something only Aziraphale can hear, which sounds an awful lot like _bloody humans and their stupid emotions_ before inconspicuously rubbing at his eyes when he thinks no one is looking.

Aziraphale can only grin, and restrain himself from profusely thanking this wonderful woman. That job, today, at least, is Crowley’s and he is up to the task. It isn’t even a tough performance for him; Aziraphale suspects none of his reactions are manufactured this time.

Once the temperature in the bookshop has settled to something more befitting living beings, Mrs. Fraticelli ventures into Aziraphale’s cramped kitchen.

It’s only cramped because, until last year, it hadn’t even existed at all. The kitchen creation miracle was a rush job in the first place. Aziraphale, back before the apocalypse, had decided on a whim that he’d like a kitchen so he could make cocoa (instead of conjuring it pre-made like he always did) in order to read the most anticipated prophecy book in the history of the world. 

That fateful cup of cocoa had never in fact been tasted; Aziraphale had been rather preoccupied. So preoccupied, in fact, that he’d forgotten to uncreate the kitchen when he was done using it. And now, here it still was. Small and decorated with little sunflower embellishments, with never-used electric appliances and an empty refrigerator. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley _needed_ food to stay alive, of course, so this was fine with them.

It was _not_ fine to Mrs. Fraticelli.

“An empty fridge!” she exclaims, clapping a hand to her forehead. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“Er, I’ve been...managing,” Crowley explains vaguely.

“He’s been dining with me, for the most part,” interjects Aziraphale, though this doesn’t seem to help much.

“Sure,” she says skeptically, eyeing his spindly frame. “This is a tragedy. You’re coming over tonight after close, both of you. I’m going to teach you how to cook, and how to make the most out of very little. And we will establish an arrangement of this nature for whatever else you need until you get back on your feet.”

 _Bless this wonderful woman_ , he thinks. Perhaps Crowley feels the same way, because another lightbulb above his head burns out with a _pop_.

* * *

Later that night, in the back kitchen of Mrs. Fraticelli’s restaurant, Aziraphale is holding a knife in his trembling hand. He stares at the onions in front of him, waiting to be diced. Crowley is on the other side of the kitchen by the stove, talking animatedly with Mrs. Fraticelli about pasta. She’s showing him how to tell when it’s done cooking, and pointing to another pot simmering in the background with a curious tomato sauce concoction.

Aziraphale may love a good meal, and may love the variations and delicious delicacies of all kinds of cuisine, but he has very little experience actually cooking.

It is something that deeply embarrasses him; like if someone who worked all their life as a computer engineer, when asked to build a computer from scratch, couldn’t even articulate what the first step would be. He feels a bit like a fraud.

Perhaps it is good that he’s finally receiving some instruction. Who knows when it will come in handy?

However. He just can’t shake the feeling that he should have learned all this a long time ago. Six thousand years wasted, staying on the wrong side of the restaurant, when if he really cared about food, maybe he’d have been back here, where the chefs do wonderful things to mussels and tomatoes and bread dough.

Aziraphale has been relegated to onion chopping duty for two reasons. For one, Crowley told Mrs. Fraticelli that Aziraphale has experience wielding sharp objects (a pointed little joke about his flaming sword). And, for another, this corporation doesn’t have tear ducts, so there is no chance of the onions making him cry. 

He stares at the onions, hefts the knife, and takes a deep breath. One slice. All is fine, he’s doing fine. More ribbons from the onion, sliced neatly on to the cutting board. He’s getting the hang of this.

Mrs. Fraticelli approaches to inspect his handiwork. She smells like garlic and basil and almonds. 

“Faster,” she demands, not unkindly. “Three more.” She corrects his posture and his grip on the knife, watches him complete her assignment without any bodily injury, then tells him to move on to grating the cheese.

She points to an unthinkable amount of mozzarella, gleaming orbs of it in a bin beside an enormous cheese grater. Next to the mozzarella is another bin full of wedges of romano, which Crowley has already begun grating into a fine, snow-like texture.

Once they’ve both been grating away for quite some time, Crowley mutters something to him, when Mrs. Fraticelli has gone to the front to choose a bottle of wine. 

“What?” asks Aziraphale.

“I said,” he repeats a little louder, “that all went down like a lead balloon.”

“What, the empty refrigerator?”

“Yes. Well. This whole afternoon, actually. The whole money thing. I’m sorry you got dragged in. I didn’t want you to worry about the fate of the shop.”

“It seems neither of us has to; Mrs. Fraticelli seems perfectly willing to make sure we don’t suffer too much. I hope you realize I’m going to have to eat in front of her. We can’t turn down anything she offers us, it would be rude.”

Crowley shrugs it off. “We can chalk it up to ‘trapped by social convention’ and nobody will ever dig into it.”

They’re silent for a few more minutes, and the aromas of the kitchen intensify around them. 

“I didn’t realize how much these people loved you, you know,” Crowley says out of the corner of his mouth. “I guess I forgot that the world we saved has _humans_ in it that you’ve, well, impacted.”

“This is very much your party too, you know,” Aziraphale points out. “You visited her all this year, you’ve been kind to her. I appreciate it and I’m sure she does.”

There’s an unreadable expression on Crowley’s face. He doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m glad we’re getting this opportunity,” Aziraphale continues. “I feel it’s high time I learned how to cook. It’s a personal failing I didn’t sooner. I’ve gone so long thinking cooking is something that happens to other people; I only see the end result.”

“You don’t see the hard work and love that goes into it,” Crowley summarizes, and receives a nod in response.

Aziraphale sneaks a taste of the mozzarella. Crowley’s palate is drastically different than his own; it’s taken some getting used to. Things just don’t taste quite the same, or nearly as good. He understands why Crowley doesn’t eat much, especially in public. It’s disappointing.

This is one thing Aziraphale still misses - being able to truly tuck into a meal and have it taste the way he expects it to. Maybe they can make another feast like this once the two of them have switched back. 

For now, though, it’s enough to know Crowley’s about to have the dinner of a lifetime. Crowley may not know what culinary bliss awaits him, but Aziraphale does, and that’s almost as good as tasting it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to art in this chapter:  
> ThePlaidFox:  
> [Sweater](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49302075627_6bd168d8ae_c.jpg)  
> [ThePlaidFox art post on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044715)


	5. Summer

Aziraphale drives them way out of London and into the countryside. It’s been just under a year since the first time he took the wheel and careened down these roads. Since then, both he and Crowley have acclimated to their circumstances. Crowley notes almost with surprise how easy it is to sit with his hands clasped in the passenger seat. Any trace of his former impatience at not being the one driving has been traded for a curious sensation almost like comfort. It is a deep and distinct...cared-for feeling.

Maybe he is only picking up on it through Aziraphale’s corporation, which is set to recognize every internal emotion, name it, and sort it into a category much like one would a book in a shop. This year, this angelic default setting has been mainly helpful for allowing Crowley to understand what it must be like for Aziraphale all the time; but sometimes the intensity, the sincerity of these emotions still shocks him. How the angel lived like this for six thousand years is a mystery, but at least Crowley can now say he’s been there too. That he understands why it takes so long for Aziraphale to let his emotions ever be visible; there are so many, and they’re so _strong_. 

But Crowley isn’t complaining. And he doesn’t have much longer in Aziraphale’s corporation anyway. Their year spent as each other is now drawing to a close. Tonight. After tonight, their ability to perform miracles will be restored.

They’ve already planned out how they will make the switch. It was decided one night a few weeks ago, while they rebuilt the broken bookshelf. Crowley knows a fair bit of carpentry, after all.

_“We should get out of London, I think. Make a picnic out of it, or something,” Aziraphale had suggested after handing Crowley another nail. “And wait until midnight.”_

_Crowley gave the nail a good bash with the hammer and then looked up. “A picnic?”_

_“Well, why not? We’ve learned how to cook, we could make it ourselves. You could bring some of it over to Mrs. Fraticelli first, to thank her. I probably shouldn’t be the one to do that.”_

_“Yes, all right.” Crowley rolled up the sleeves of the collared shirt he was wearing and started sanding. “But what are we going to make?”_

The answer to that question now rests in a basket on the backseat of the Bentley. It slides gently toward the driver-side door as Aziraphale makes a tight turn. Within it are two kinds of sandwiches (though which kinds, Crowley isn’t quite clear on), a jug of water infused with lemon, mint, and cucumber, a brown bag containing two ripe pears, and a lovely chicken and wild rice dish they’ve collaborated on. Crowley is in charge of dessert, so he’s done his absolute best to try his hand at baking.

When they pull off the road at the entrance to an empty field, there is a moment when Aziraphale turns off the headlights and the darkness swoops over them like impenetrable wings. Then, once Crowley’s eyes adjust, he realizes Aziraphale has already gotten out of the car to start gathering their things. Seeing in the dark is an advantage Crowley can’t wait to have back, but he can’t deny that it’s rather fun to pull out a torch and click it on, like they do in movies.

“Are you coming?” asks the angel as he shuts the car doors and hoists up the bags he’s carrying. Crowley makes his way over, grass whispering against his brown leather shoes.

“Here,” he says, and takes a blanket and the picnic basket from Aziraphale. Together, they make their way over to a nice space in the middle of the field and set up. It takes mere minutes to put out their spread of food and arrange torches around the perimeter so Crowley can see properly. Aziraphale only pauses over a long, narrow shoulder bag Crowley doesn’t remember packing in the car. The angel must have snuck it in.

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale pushes the sunglasses up off his face and into his hair with a grin. “Keep forgetting I’ve got these on,” he mutters, then hands the mystery bag to Crowley. “I found this at your flat, and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

The bag is heavy. Surprisingly so. But Crowley, upon wrapping his fingers around the strap, realizes immediately what it is.

“You _didn’t_ ,” he murmurs, running the torch light along it even though he’s already sure what’s inside.

“I did.”

Crowley strides away from the blanket to a level spot. He unwraps the telescope and holds it for a moment. “Hello,” he breathes. 

He has to look up to avoid his eyes blurring. Good thing he won’t have to keep doing _that_ much longer.

He sets up the telescope immediately, putting the torch handle between his teeth so he can use both hands. He hasn’t used this telescope in twelve years at least, but he remembers all the notches and dials and positions as if it was yesterday. It’s a little dusty, but after the past year in the bookshop, he doesn’t mind dust as much anymore.

Crowley aims the telescope so they’ll have a good view, then sets down the torch and kneels to look through the lens. Time seems to stop for him as he gazes up at the bright, burning things he helped create long ago. Somehow, he’s surprised they’re still there. So much has changed since the last time he really _looked_ at them, but they’re here, steadfast and waiting.

It’s rare to find truly immortal things in life. There’s always the threat of ticking time negating any assurance of infinity. Nobody can guarantee when their time will be up, or when the world will end (again). Last year’s near-destruction of everything they loved was what it took for Crowley and Aziraphale to learn that their time is precious. And now, they’ve had a year to learn how to start acting like it. As with stars, they’re more indefinite than immortal, but now they can shine together.

It isn’t until Aziraphale taps him on the shoulder and hands him a ready-made plate of food that he finally comes out of his reverie.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, scooping up the torch with his other hand. The light illuminates Aziraphale’s soft smile in a reverse halo and makes his snake eyes blaze gold like the dawn.

“What’s a midnight picnic celebration without a proper look at the stars? You don’t get this view in London.”

“I haven’t,” Crowley starts, and has to take a moment before finishing, “I haven’t looked up, looked at them properly, in so long.”

“I know. You’ve been minding things on my behalf all year.”

“No, I mean, even before that. Twelve years-”

“At all? Not once?” Aziraphale demands, incredulous.

“Well, no. I sort of...lost hope. I didn’t like to think that the stars I helped build were watching while I helped destroy the world. Like they would hold me accountable. My fault.”

“Because you had to, ah, deliver…”

“Yeah. And don’t get me started on Alpha Centauri.”

Aziraphale winces, and that’s all Crowley needs to change the subject. This night is not supposed to bring them pain. They’re not who they were back at the bandstand. They won’t be ever again, even if Crowley has to promise it aloud. He doesn’t think he needs to do that, though. It’s Aziraphale, for goodness’ sake.

“Anyway,” he says, “where’s your plate? You’re going to eat, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale blinks gratefully. “Oh yes, this time, I will.”

The angel puts a hand on his shoulder and leads him back to the blanket, where their food has been set up in a marvelous spread. Aziraphale then eyes the picnic basket with dawning realization.

“That’s not...was that...Adam’s?”

“Yes,” says Crowley. “Actually.”

There’s a pause, and then they’re laughing. 

The night passes much this way; as they dine, there are good-natured arguments over Shakespeare and proper gardening techniques and the Dewey Decimal System. When they finish their meal, they marvel at the constellations above their heads, taking turns gazing upward through the telescope and pointing out the ones Crowley designed back before the beginning. 

By the time they are ready for dessert, they’ve abandoned the telescope for lying flat on the blanket so they can look together, staring up at the indigo sky, laughing about the past year. The thrill of something new, the confusion and feeling lost, the darker moments from that winter, the hilarity of their situation, the sheer humanity of it. 

“It’s been a good year,” Aziraphale sighs as Crowley starts assembling dessert. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Now? Yes, I would,” he agrees, positioning cookies on Aziraphale’s plate. He unearths a thermos of cocoa from its place buried under the blanket, and pours a cup for each of them. “Never would’ve guessed. But honestly, I think whoever came up with this punishment knew what they were doing.”

Azirapahle holds his cocoa in both hands, clearly enjoying the warmth. His yellow eyes skitter back down to the plate of cookies, and he takes one to hold up to the torchlight, criticizing it gingerly. “Forgive me, angel, but what are these supposed to be?” 

Despite being somewhat offended, Crowley smiles fondly. That’s Aziraphale for you, playing the part down to the last.

“How dare you,” he objects, “They’re shortbread angels. I had to borrow the cookie cutter from Mrs. Fraticelli. They took me hours.”

“I hate to say it,” Aziraphale winces, perhaps because he _does_ hate to say it; he can’t bear to hurt Crowley’s feelings on this perfect night, “but they don’t look very much like angels. Kind of like...ghosts.”

“If you insult them, you’re not allowed to eat them,” argues Crowley.

“Oh no, it’s not an insult,” he backpedals, trying not to laugh. “Just an observation.”

“Well, I’m going to have a grand old time eating these ghost cookies and you’ll just miss out.”

“I’m sure they taste lovely.”

As it transpires, they do _not_. Crowley is many things, but a baker is not one of them. Luckily, the cocoa washes down the cardboard taste, and it’s more about the experience, really. They decide they’ll laugh about it later, when Crowley’s pride isn’t as bruised. Truthfully, he’s happy leaving the baking to Aziraphale in the future.

Crowley packs up their dishes until they’re left with only the last of the cocoa, the blanket, and a clock edging toward midnight. Aziraphale watches over his shoulder as Crowley pulls out the old pocket watch again and again, announcing they are fifteen, ten, five minutes away from the other side of their punishment.

“Are you nervous?” Aziraphale asks. He’s folded his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

“Maybe a little.”

“I’m worried.” He swallows, like he’s unsure whether he should keep talking. He looks up at Crowley; that seems to give him resolve. “That things’ll be different after we switch back.”

“What things?”

“Well, we’ve been working together so much this year, and I’m worried things will go back to how they were before. I _like_ the patterns we’ve developed this year. Difficult as they were, at first. I don’t want to see that drift off into what we had before. This is...better.”

Crowley smiles, maybe a little deviously. “If you are going to miss the plants that much, you could just say so.”

Azirphale rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Who says anything has to go back to how it was? We’ll be ourselves. Together.”

“Together.”

“Yeah.” It comes out like a whisper. Crowley’s eyes flick over to his friend. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then,” he smiles and holds out his hand for Aziraphale to take. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“See you on the other side,” grins the angel as their palms meet. 

The clock reaches midnight, and under the cover of stars and shadows, they switch back.

* * *

Afterward, they sit for a while on the blanket as they adjust back to their respective corporations. Crowley is acclimating to the fact he can see in the dark again, and judging by Aziraphale’s torchlit face, the opposite situation is taking place too.

The overall feeling of being restored is generally like putting on a well-worn favorite pair of shoes after not wearing them for a year. A sense of recognition and comfort, but also an unsettling feeling, as though something is different. A fear that things won’t fit the way they once did. That they’ll leave blisters.

But as they breathe and look back up at the stars, the fear starts to dissipate. Crowley relaxes a little, feels the fluidity of his joints responding the way they always have. Aziraphale’s stiff and proper posture left him with a year-long neck ache he’d apparently gotten used to. 

“Everything okay, angel?” he asks, reveling in the fact that he can say this again. _Angel._

“Very much so,” murmurs Aziraphale. “You?”

“‘M fine.”

“Should we test it out?”

“Test what out?”

“Our miracles, dear boy. Have they been restored in full?”

“Oh, right. Forgot, to be honest.”

“I will admit, switching back was rather a priority. But if we’re to continue keeping up appearances, they’ll probably expect us to check if the punishment’s been lifted.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. Everywhere within a certain radius receives a blessing so strong that the hair on the back of Crowely’s neck stands up. A kind of peace settles over the area, and it’s clear nothing bad will befall the residents in the surrounding towns for quite some time. Plants will grow healthy and beautiful, people will be moved to more acts of goodwill, and financial windfalls in the form of bank errors have taken place for families who were struggling. The air smells like peppermint and lavender. Aziraphale is a show off.

When it is Crowley’s turn, he has something especially creative up his sleeve. The field of grass around him rumbles for a moment, and then thousands of purple and yellow orchids spring up out of the ground, until the two of them are completely surrounded by glossy, moonlit petals. 

Aziraphale seems a little confused. “Crowley, how does this qualify as a miracle? Orchids are lovely, but they’re hardly wicked. Your side tends to be rather...unimaginative. Will they understand this?”

“Meh,” Crowley argues. “They don’t have to understand. But don’t worry, it’s a good one. I’m sending a message.”

They begin to pack up their things, and Aziraphale prompts him to explain as they deconstruct the telescope together.

“They’re wild Lady Slipper orchids. They’re protected. So rare that it’s illegal to even touch them without a license, actually. Anyone removing or stealing them can face prison. Basically, no one can touch these. And it’ll baffle everyone how they got here.” As he talks, they start walking to the Bentley. “Just think of all the people squabbling over who gets to see them, and who’s gonna get the money from the tourism. And it’s inconvenient for everybody; see, this field won’t be used for anything ever again. It’s a landmark now.”

Aziraphale pauses, as if rendered speechless. It takes him a while, but he eventually manages to murmur, “My dear, I always knew there was a reason I liked you.”

When they get to the car, Crowley takes his place in the driver’s seat with a long sigh of happiness. “ _Hello_. I’ve missed you so much,” he murmurs to the car, stroking the steering wheel with the pads of his fingers.

Aziraphale smiles fondly and settles in, luxuriating in his usual place in the passenger seat. He’s glad to be back.

Crowley starts the engine, and they peel out onto the road. The radio blares to life the way Crowley always expects it to, playing what starts as the opening bars of _Waterloo_ and then blends smoothly into _I’m in Love with My Car._ They cruise off, leaving the field of orchids and open sky behind, with the unknown road ahead. Beyond lie all the opportunities their beloved world has to offer.

There is a bookshop with a kitchen in Soho. There is a flat full of secretly adored plants. There will be a cottage on the South Downs someday, but not yet. 

There are recipes to try, sweaters to knit, heat lamps to bask under, soup kitchens to support, plants to threaten, and country roads to explore at improbable vehicular speeds.

There are things to enjoy, people to love, and innumerable ways to measure the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to art in this chapter:  
> Katy133:  
> [Telescope](https://www.deviantart.com/katy133/art/Measure-a-Year-Telescope-824455106)  
> 
> 
> And that's a wrap! Thanks for reading! A round of applause for this fic's two amazing artists, ThePlaidFox and Katy133, as well as my amazing beta, cosmya. This collaboration is the product of several months of hard work for all of us, and we're thrilled to finally be able to share it with you. Let us know what you think, and be sure to check out other extremely talent-packed works in the Big Bang!
> 
> You can find us on Tumblr here:  
> [theinkwell33](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> [ThePlaidFox](https://theplaidfox.tumblr.com/)  
> [Katy133](https://katy-133.tumblr.com/)  
> [cosmya](https://cosmya.tumblr.com/)
> 
> AO3:  
> [Katy133](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katy133)  
> [ThePlaidFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlaidFox), [ThePlaidFox art post on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044715)  
> [cosmya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya)


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